Page 1 of Troubled Skies (Blue Skies #3)

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Ricky

What Ricky remembered later was silence.

In all the training scenarios and classes he’d been through, he always imagined there would be screaming or crying or prayers.

There would be chaos and panic. Instead, there was nothing except his voice and Sheila’s chanting getdownstaydown getdownstaydown and the excruciating whine of the remaining engines as the plane continued its accelerated descent.

Later, there would be all the screaming and crying, chaos and panic he’d expected, along with moans and calls for help that would haunt Ricky’s thoughts and dreams for weeks.

But in the moments after the captain alerted them to the danger they were in, the passengers were silent.

He and Sheila kept up their chant until they were both hoarse, their hands gripped together so tightly, Ricky would wear the marks from her nails for weeks afterward.

Along with the bruises on his hips and abdomen and chest from the seat restraints, the aches from his body being thrown against them as the plane tumbled and rolled and slid onto its side, the burns on his legs and scorch in his throat from the jet fuel and flames and melting plastic.

He knew he would wear those scars on his body forever along with the ones in his mind.

In the moment after the plane stopped moving, he was aware of none of that, only the need to move, move, move , move as he fumbled to release his seat belt, desperately fighting the urge to run away as he opened the emergency hatch, but staying to help the passengers out of their seats and pushing them away from the wreck before it was consumed by fire.

He went back over and over again to assist anyone still trapped until the smoke was too thick, and he had to retreat to the tarmac.

Time slowed and then stopped and then ceased to have any meaning as Ricky moved from one huddled group of passengers to another, assessing, comforting as best he could, alerting first responders as they arrived on the scene to the most badly injured.

He lost track of Sheila, lost track of his body and its aches and injuries.

At one point, he wiped sweat from his forehead and found that the back of his hand was bloody, but then someone called for help, and he was moving again.

In the ambulance, they asked him questions.

What’s your name?

Richard Adrian Bennett.

How old are you?

Twenty-eight.

Where do you live?

Los Angeles.

Do you know where you are?

Los Angeles.

Can you do the sevens multiplication table?

Seven, fourteen, twenty-one, twenty-eight…thirty-five…for…ty-two…fifty… something…

How do you feel?

The question stumped him because he didn’t know. He couldn’t actually feel his body and his mind was working too slowly for him to figure out why.

“Shock,” one of the EMTs said as she shone a light in his eyes. “Possible concussion.”

At the hospital, there were examinations to document his contusions and lacerations and burns, X-rays to confirm he had no broken bones, scans and assessments to rule out concussion or brain injury.

Someone gave him a shirt and sweatpants so he could get out of his torn and bloody uniform. That was when the stench of jet fuel and smoke disappeared enough for him to smell the antiseptic and sterilized air of the hospital.

For some reason, Ricky kept expecting to see his parents, kept anticipating his mother’s cries of relief, his father’s brusque interrogation of the doctors and nurses as he demanded answers for why his son wasn’t being taken care of quickly enough.

His voice ringing out, “Dear God, why isn’t he in a room already?

” as he had after Ricky broke his leg playing soccer in middle school.

Even if his parents hadn’t lived in Seattle, it would have been impossible for them to be there because he hadn’t spoken to them in five years.

They had no idea he still lived in LA let alone that he’d become a flight attendant.

Even if they saw the news, they wouldn’t know he’d been on that plane.

Still, he turned toward the door of the exam room in expectation every time someone entered, then brushed aside disappointment when it was only another medical person coming to take blood or check his IV.

He told himself he didn’t need someone to hold him or tell him he was okay.

He was fine on his own and had been for years.

A doctor told him they were keeping him overnight for observation, and he was moved to a regular room.

When he asked about the crash, the nurses wouldn’t answer any of his questions about the passengers or the rest of the flight crew.

After he turned on the TV, he understood why.

The accident was all over the news, images of the plane broken almost in half, the front end charred, the back end—where he and Sheila had been—largely intact though blackened from fire, the runway a mess of foam and airplane seats, luggage, a drinks cart.

He wondered if it was the one he’d been pushing up the aisle just before the first engine failed.

“The current number of fatalities stands at sixty-five, with countless more injured. Both the pilot and copilot are among the dead,” the news anchor said.

Ricky turned off the TV trying not to picture Robert’s and Martin’s faces, their laughter as the flight crew had boarded the plane and started their preflight routines.

His phone had probably perished in the crash, and that was both a blessing and a curse.

A blessing because social media would be blowing up with both real and exaggerated stories about the incident.

A curse because he couldn’t get ahold of anyone to tell them he was alive.

But then, who would he tell? He couldn’t think of a single person who needed to know what had happened directly from him.

The flight attendants’ Facebook group was sure to be abuzz with details and the names of who had been on the flight.

With a start, he remembered it was the day of Luis and Darius’ party to celebrate their marriage.

Which was the reason he had been on this flight to begin with, an impulsive decision to escape from watching the happy couple celebrate while surrounded by people who loved them.

Almost everyone Ricky knew or cared about was at Luis’s parents’ house right now, Micah included.

And he’d brought Jake. Another reason Ricky had volunteered to take the flight when one of the attendants who was scheduled for it had to take time off for medical reasons.

Ricky had no desire to see Micah especially now he was married to Jake.

His crush on the willowy dancer turned flight attendant turned corporate trainer might have waned, but Ricky still couldn’t shake the resentment he felt at Jake for being Micah’s person.

Jake was an asshole for making someone as wonderful as Micah wait twenty years until he got his head out of his ass and realized how incredible Micah was, and Micah was an idiot for sticking around that long.

So, no, seeing all the happy couples had not been on Ricky’s list of things he wanted to do.

Hence the last-minute decision to take today’s flight to Sydney.

Just another one of Ricky’s rash and impulsive decisions that ended in disaster.

Usually, they only ended up with his heart broken, this one had literally almost killed him.

Ricky took a deep breath and rubbed at his stinging eyes, then winced at the twinge in his ribs.

The doctors said he hadn’t broken anything, but it definitely hurt if he breathed too deeply.

Not to mention the way his body ached. And how tired he was.

Though that was probably due to the painkillers they’d given him.

Ricky got himself as comfortable as he could on the bed and closed his eyes.

They’d offered him something to help him sleep, but drugs weren’t his thing no matter what kind they were.

He’d told the nurse he wouldn’t refuse a cocktail, though, and hadn’t been surprised when the stern matron in the teddy bear scrubs scowled at him.

“Richard? Richard, love, you need to wake up.”

The voice in his ear was gentle but insistent, as was the touch on his shoulder.

Ricky swam up from the clinging darkness, then gasped as he opened his eyes.

His brain was clouded, fuzzy, and his throat raw, plus he was drenched in sweat.

Almost immediately, he began to shiver even as he tried to get his bearings.

It took a moment for “hospital room” to click into place to explain why he wasn’t in his own bed, and then “nurse” as the person who still had a hand on his shoulder.

“You had a bad dream,” she said. It was a different nurse from the one who’d told him he could have drugs but not drinks. This one was younger and wore scrubs with rainbows on them and a rainbow wristband for her iWatch.

Staring at her watch, Ricky nodded though he had no memory of dreaming about anything. His throat was sore, but it had been since the crash. An echo of screams whispered through his mind, and he winced, closed his eyes, and shook his head.

“It happens,” the nurse continued. “It’s nothing to worry about. You’ll probably have them for a bit while your brain processes what happened.”

“Joy.” Ricky glared at her, and the nurse smiled in a way Ricky tried not to interpret as pity.

“I can give you something to help you sleep if you’d like.”

It was on the tip of his tongue to refuse again, but his body hurt so much more than it had when he fell asleep, and he was filled with a crushing sense of isolation that made him want to cry.

Shivers racked his body as he nodded, making everything ache, and the nurse said she’d get some warm blankets for him as well as a sedative.